Jammed
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A woman scorned...
_____________________________________________________________________
She picked her way through the rubble. The tenants had been forced to leave, decanted to temporary housing before the demolition crews moved in. The only building left was the block on the far side. Jim’s block. He still had that stupid flag on the veranda. Yvonne wasn’t surprised he was still there. The smell of stale rubbish in the close brought back memories she thought she’d managed to forget. The doors on the first floor were boarded up. They had been ripped off on the second. The top floor wasn’t much better, but she could see from the WELCOME mat that Jim hadn’t lost his sense of humour. She rattled the knocker, even though she still had a key. Did he know? She didn’t want to use it, it would give him ideas. She wasn’t coming back to look after him, that was for sure. She rang the bell. Then she wondered if he would be able to get to the door. The story going round was that he was in a wheelchair. Lots of stories were going round about Jim. And photographs. He was a celebrity, and not just locally. He’d made the front pages of the Record and the Evening Times.
She leaned down and shouted through the letter box. ‘Jim! It’s me! Jim!’ She pressed an ear to the space and heard something like a muffled shout, or a loud groan. After a moment, she let herself in.
The condition of the flat confirmed lots of things. The living room was spotless, a leather couch in the middle of the floor, a smoked glass coffee table and a flat screen TV on a stand. The carpet looked new as well. Seemingly, a nurse came in twice a week, but Yvonne knew it wasn’t her who did the tidying up.
‘Jim!’ she shouted. ‘Where are you?’
She followed the groan into the bedroom. The bed was made, but the quilt was rankled, as if someone had been lying on it. And the wheelchair was there, too, it had been placed like the bars on the side of a cot.
‘Jim? Are you in here?’
She checked the other bedroom, the kids’ old room, but there was nothing in there, nothing at all. And the kitchen. The toilet door was open, he wasn’t in there, either. She went back to the big bedroom. ‘Jim?’ she said. Her voice was shaking. Then she heard that groan again. He had fallen down the gap between the bed and the wall, he was lying there, crumpled. ‘Jesus Christ, Jim, what happened?’ she said. She tried to move the bed to make some space, but the wheelchair brakes were stuck, she had to drag it out into the lobby to get near him. The side of his face was pressed into the carpet, his left eye was straining to look at her. ‘Jim, how am I going to lift you?’ she said. She didn’t know if he would be able to answer, if he was able to talk. Maybe he’d got worse since the reporter interviewed him. ‘Jim, I’ll try to put you on the bed, okay?’ she said. She got her arms under him. He was nothing more than a bag of bones, like a skinny child.
The teabags and cups were in the cupboard over the sink, where they’d always been. The kitchen was tidy, like the rest of the flat, but there was a smell, like medicine and toilets, like an old folk’s home. She carried two cups of tea through to the living room. He was sitting in the wheelchair, next to the couch, where she’d left him. It had taken half an hour to get him onto the bed, it was as if he had been resisting. Maybe there was more power in his legs than he was letting on. Deep down, though, she knew he wasn’t at it. You only had to look at him.
She lifted the remote and turned on the television. The screen was far too big, she wanted to push the couch further back. She turned it off.
‘So, Jim,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been keeping?’
He was staring at the table, at the cup of tea.
‘Do you want some tea, Jim?’ she said. She remembered talking to her granddad like this, after the Alzheimer’s got a grip of him. He died of something else, though. Anyway, Alzheimer’s wasn’t Jim’s problem. Maybe this was going to be more difficult than she thought. ‘Jim?’ she said.
His eyes turned to her, just his eyes, nothing else.
‘Eh, Jim, is that what you want, do you want some tea?’
His fingers moved in his lap. The knuckles were large, shiny. Then he took a breath. He licked his lips. ‘Don’t shout,’ he said. His voice was deep, like a slow growl. ‘I’m not deaf.’
‘Oh, you can speak?’ she said. ‘You could at least thank me for picking you up off the floor. You could have suffocated.’
‘Thanks, Yvonne,’ he said. ‘You’re a true friend.’
Same old Jim. She wasn’t going to rise to it. ‘How long were…’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘There’s straws in the kitchen drawer,’ he said.
‘Eh?’ she said.
‘Straws,’ he said. ‘I need a straw. And put some water in that tea, there’s steam coming off it.’
She emptied half of it down the sink and let the tap run till it was cold.
‘There you go,’ she said, and laid the cup in front of him. The straw moved then bobbed out onto the table.
‘You’ll need to do it,’ he said.
She lifted her bag off the floor. She couldn’t be doing with this. She wanted to get to the chippy before the queue started. It was Family Allowance day, the kids were on a promise.
‘Did you put water in it?’ he said.
‘I did, aye,’ she said.
He just sat there, looking at her. ‘You’ll need to bring it to me, Yvonne,’ he said.
It was even worse than when they were married. She was glad she’d left when she did, when he started to get sick. This wasn’t what she wanted to be doing with her life. He moved his head back when he’d had enough, at least that’s what she thought he meant. Dribbles down his chin. She put the cup back on the table and sat on the couch.
‘The nurse was here this morning,’ he said. ‘She’ll be back on Friday.’
‘I see you’ve still got your Saltire on the veranda,’ she said.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Is this going to turn into a political discussion?’
‘When are you moving out?’ she said. ‘You’re the only one left in the scheme.’
‘I’m staying put,’ he said. ‘They can’t throw a cripple out on the street.’ He licked his lips. ‘Not this cripple.’
‘You’ve got the place looking smashing,’ she said.
He had the beginnings of that smile on his face, the one that wasn’t a smile. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ve got everything a man needs.’
‘That’s some size of a television set,’ she said.
‘It’s a beauty, aye,’ he said. ‘I just watch the HD channels. You want to see the quality of the picture, it’s like you’re actually there, you know, in the jungle. There was a good programme on last night about parasites. Ninety pound a month with the phone, I got a package. Direct debit, Yvonne, it’s not a problem.’
‘Don’t get sarcastic,’ she said. ‘I didn’t come here for a windup.’
‘Sorry, doll, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Was there something you wanted, or were you just passing through?’
‘Does your nurse do your housework, Jim?’ she said. ‘You’ll be able to give her a wee bit extra, I suppose, on the quiet, a rich man like you. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’
He laughed, a wheeze and a cough. More slavers down his chin. What a state to get into. ‘Good news travels fast,’ he said. ‘How is the Clansman these days, by the way?’
She would have moved, but the backs of her legs were stuck to the cushion. ‘Hell of a boring,’ she said.
‘Oh, come on, Yvonne,’ he said. ‘I’m not believing that for a minute. It could never be boring with a big classy lady like you propping up the bar every night.’
She sipped tea. ‘Have you got any biscuits?’ she said.
He shook his head and looked away. ‘There’s Jaffa Cakes in the fridge,’ he said.
Jaffa Cakes weren’t the only thing in the fridge. It was full – milk, eggs, vegetables and a Full Scottish Breakfast in a polystyrene tray. Orange juice. It was all brand stuff, none of your supermarket own label trash.
‘That’s a healthy looking fridge,’ she said.
‘Couldn’t you find the Jaffa Cakes?’ he said.
‘Bugger the Jaffa Cakes!’ she said. ‘Is Moira Sneddon still hanging around this flat?’
He was laughing again, bubbles at the corners of his mouth. ‘Bugger the Jaffa Cakes,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to remember that yin.’
She got the papers out of her bag. ‘Here,’ she said. She waited for him to take them. After a moment she propped them on the backs of his hands. They flapped against his jumper.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘My lawyer says you’ve to sign them,’ she said.
‘What, auld Grierson?’ he said. ‘Is he still on the go?’
‘He’s retired,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new one. Lex Paterson.’
‘Lex Paterson?’ he said. ‘The ambulance chaser? Christ’s sake, Yvonne.’
‘Just sign them,’ she said.
‘What are they, though?’ he said. ‘No, don’t tell me, I bet they’ve got something to do with you and money.’
‘I’m entitled to half,’ she said.
‘Half of what?’ he said.
‘Don’t come it,’ she said. ‘Half of the settlement.’
‘Oh, I know that’s what you meant,’ he said. ‘But what I’m asking you is half of how much?’
‘I’ve heard…’ she said.
More smiling and drooling. ‘This’ll be good,’ he said.
‘There’s talk of a six figure sum,’ she said.
‘Aye, I’m sure there is,’ he said. ‘But that’s just Clansman gossip, Yvonne.’
‘Well, how much is it, then?’ she said.
‘It might be six figures,’ he said. ‘Then again, it might not. I’m not at liberty to divulge the actual amount. Me and Mr British Agrochemicals Industries shook han…we reached an amicable agreement.’
‘Don’t you do this!’ she said. ‘What about Kylie and Martin?’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You could have brought them with you.’
‘They’re busy,’ she said.
‘Too busy to see their daddy?’ he said.
‘Don’t you shirk your responsibilities,’ she said.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of shirking recently,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to get around, you know? Telling ye, Yvonne, it’s a good job Moira comes in to do the shopping and the housework and the cooking and wash me and shave me and wipe the shite off my arse. She’s been doing it for, ooh, a couple of years now. But you know that already, eh?’
‘That bitch has played you like a fish,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ he said.
‘Don’t you dare think about giving her…’
‘Friends look after each other,’ he said. ‘It’s not difficult to work out who the real ones are.’
‘You’d better…’
‘Listen, Yvonne,’ he said. ‘The kids will be well taken care of. When they’re bigger. A lot bigger. I’m telling you that because I owe it to you, because you’re their mother, and mothers worry. I appreciate that. But you, Yvonne, you personally will be getting fuck all.’
‘You can’t…’ she said.
‘I’ve got a lawyer, too,’ he said. ‘Bloody expensive. Not an ambulance chaser. It’s all down in black and white and locked up in his safe. So you can put your papers away, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull.’
‘Stunt?’ she said. ‘Do you want to see a stunt, Jim?’ She pushed him back into his room and cowped him onto the bed. It wasn’t difficult to jam him back where she found him. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Is that good enough for you?’
His arms were folded under his legs, his head twisted against the skirting board. He was making croaking sounds. ‘Fuck you,’ he said. It was obviously an effort. ‘I’m…I’m expecting Moira any minute.’ A gasp for air. ‘And make sure you leave…’
She pulled the front door shut and tried to snap off the key in the lock, but it was rigid, she couldn’t manage it. Keeping the key would be useful, anyway. She would be able to get a good price for that television set. In fact, she knew just the man who would be interested. She threw her bag over her shoulder and started out for the Clansman, retracing her steps between the piles of broken bricks.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A woman scorned...
_____________________________________________________________________
She picked her way through the rubble. The tenants had been forced to leave, decanted to temporary housing before the demolition crews moved in. The only building left was the block on the far side. Jim’s block. He still had that stupid flag on the veranda. Yvonne wasn’t surprised he was still there. The smell of stale rubbish in the close brought back memories she thought she’d managed to forget. The doors on the first floor were boarded up. They had been ripped off on the second. The top floor wasn’t much better, but she could see from the WELCOME mat that Jim hadn’t lost his sense of humour. She rattled the knocker, even though she still had a key. Did he know? She didn’t want to use it, it would give him ideas. She wasn’t coming back to look after him, that was for sure. She rang the bell. Then she wondered if he would be able to get to the door. The story going round was that he was in a wheelchair. Lots of stories were going round about Jim. And photographs. He was a celebrity, and not just locally. He’d made the front pages of the Record and the Evening Times.
She leaned down and shouted through the letter box. ‘Jim! It’s me! Jim!’ She pressed an ear to the space and heard something like a muffled shout, or a loud groan. After a moment, she let herself in.
The condition of the flat confirmed lots of things. The living room was spotless, a leather couch in the middle of the floor, a smoked glass coffee table and a flat screen TV on a stand. The carpet looked new as well. Seemingly, a nurse came in twice a week, but Yvonne knew it wasn’t her who did the tidying up.
‘Jim!’ she shouted. ‘Where are you?’
She followed the groan into the bedroom. The bed was made, but the quilt was rankled, as if someone had been lying on it. And the wheelchair was there, too, it had been placed like the bars on the side of a cot.
‘Jim? Are you in here?’
She checked the other bedroom, the kids’ old room, but there was nothing in there, nothing at all. And the kitchen. The toilet door was open, he wasn’t in there, either. She went back to the big bedroom. ‘Jim?’ she said. Her voice was shaking. Then she heard that groan again. He had fallen down the gap between the bed and the wall, he was lying there, crumpled. ‘Jesus Christ, Jim, what happened?’ she said. She tried to move the bed to make some space, but the wheelchair brakes were stuck, she had to drag it out into the lobby to get near him. The side of his face was pressed into the carpet, his left eye was straining to look at her. ‘Jim, how am I going to lift you?’ she said. She didn’t know if he would be able to answer, if he was able to talk. Maybe he’d got worse since the reporter interviewed him. ‘Jim, I’ll try to put you on the bed, okay?’ she said. She got her arms under him. He was nothing more than a bag of bones, like a skinny child.
The teabags and cups were in the cupboard over the sink, where they’d always been. The kitchen was tidy, like the rest of the flat, but there was a smell, like medicine and toilets, like an old folk’s home. She carried two cups of tea through to the living room. He was sitting in the wheelchair, next to the couch, where she’d left him. It had taken half an hour to get him onto the bed, it was as if he had been resisting. Maybe there was more power in his legs than he was letting on. Deep down, though, she knew he wasn’t at it. You only had to look at him.
She lifted the remote and turned on the television. The screen was far too big, she wanted to push the couch further back. She turned it off.
‘So, Jim,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been keeping?’
He was staring at the table, at the cup of tea.
‘Do you want some tea, Jim?’ she said. She remembered talking to her granddad like this, after the Alzheimer’s got a grip of him. He died of something else, though. Anyway, Alzheimer’s wasn’t Jim’s problem. Maybe this was going to be more difficult than she thought. ‘Jim?’ she said.
His eyes turned to her, just his eyes, nothing else.
‘Eh, Jim, is that what you want, do you want some tea?’
His fingers moved in his lap. The knuckles were large, shiny. Then he took a breath. He licked his lips. ‘Don’t shout,’ he said. His voice was deep, like a slow growl. ‘I’m not deaf.’
‘Oh, you can speak?’ she said. ‘You could at least thank me for picking you up off the floor. You could have suffocated.’
‘Thanks, Yvonne,’ he said. ‘You’re a true friend.’
Same old Jim. She wasn’t going to rise to it. ‘How long were…’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘There’s straws in the kitchen drawer,’ he said.
‘Eh?’ she said.
‘Straws,’ he said. ‘I need a straw. And put some water in that tea, there’s steam coming off it.’
She emptied half of it down the sink and let the tap run till it was cold.
‘There you go,’ she said, and laid the cup in front of him. The straw moved then bobbed out onto the table.
‘You’ll need to do it,’ he said.
She lifted her bag off the floor. She couldn’t be doing with this. She wanted to get to the chippy before the queue started. It was Family Allowance day, the kids were on a promise.
‘Did you put water in it?’ he said.
‘I did, aye,’ she said.
He just sat there, looking at her. ‘You’ll need to bring it to me, Yvonne,’ he said.
It was even worse than when they were married. She was glad she’d left when she did, when he started to get sick. This wasn’t what she wanted to be doing with her life. He moved his head back when he’d had enough, at least that’s what she thought he meant. Dribbles down his chin. She put the cup back on the table and sat on the couch.
‘The nurse was here this morning,’ he said. ‘She’ll be back on Friday.’
‘I see you’ve still got your Saltire on the veranda,’ she said.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Is this going to turn into a political discussion?’
‘When are you moving out?’ she said. ‘You’re the only one left in the scheme.’
‘I’m staying put,’ he said. ‘They can’t throw a cripple out on the street.’ He licked his lips. ‘Not this cripple.’
‘You’ve got the place looking smashing,’ she said.
He had the beginnings of that smile on his face, the one that wasn’t a smile. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ve got everything a man needs.’
‘That’s some size of a television set,’ she said.
‘It’s a beauty, aye,’ he said. ‘I just watch the HD channels. You want to see the quality of the picture, it’s like you’re actually there, you know, in the jungle. There was a good programme on last night about parasites. Ninety pound a month with the phone, I got a package. Direct debit, Yvonne, it’s not a problem.’
‘Don’t get sarcastic,’ she said. ‘I didn’t come here for a windup.’
‘Sorry, doll, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Was there something you wanted, or were you just passing through?’
‘Does your nurse do your housework, Jim?’ she said. ‘You’ll be able to give her a wee bit extra, I suppose, on the quiet, a rich man like you. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’
He laughed, a wheeze and a cough. More slavers down his chin. What a state to get into. ‘Good news travels fast,’ he said. ‘How is the Clansman these days, by the way?’
She would have moved, but the backs of her legs were stuck to the cushion. ‘Hell of a boring,’ she said.
‘Oh, come on, Yvonne,’ he said. ‘I’m not believing that for a minute. It could never be boring with a big classy lady like you propping up the bar every night.’
She sipped tea. ‘Have you got any biscuits?’ she said.
He shook his head and looked away. ‘There’s Jaffa Cakes in the fridge,’ he said.
Jaffa Cakes weren’t the only thing in the fridge. It was full – milk, eggs, vegetables and a Full Scottish Breakfast in a polystyrene tray. Orange juice. It was all brand stuff, none of your supermarket own label trash.
‘That’s a healthy looking fridge,’ she said.
‘Couldn’t you find the Jaffa Cakes?’ he said.
‘Bugger the Jaffa Cakes!’ she said. ‘Is Moira Sneddon still hanging around this flat?’
He was laughing again, bubbles at the corners of his mouth. ‘Bugger the Jaffa Cakes,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to remember that yin.’
She got the papers out of her bag. ‘Here,’ she said. She waited for him to take them. After a moment she propped them on the backs of his hands. They flapped against his jumper.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘My lawyer says you’ve to sign them,’ she said.
‘What, auld Grierson?’ he said. ‘Is he still on the go?’
‘He’s retired,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new one. Lex Paterson.’
‘Lex Paterson?’ he said. ‘The ambulance chaser? Christ’s sake, Yvonne.’
‘Just sign them,’ she said.
‘What are they, though?’ he said. ‘No, don’t tell me, I bet they’ve got something to do with you and money.’
‘I’m entitled to half,’ she said.
‘Half of what?’ he said.
‘Don’t come it,’ she said. ‘Half of the settlement.’
‘Oh, I know that’s what you meant,’ he said. ‘But what I’m asking you is half of how much?’
‘I’ve heard…’ she said.
More smiling and drooling. ‘This’ll be good,’ he said.
‘There’s talk of a six figure sum,’ she said.
‘Aye, I’m sure there is,’ he said. ‘But that’s just Clansman gossip, Yvonne.’
‘Well, how much is it, then?’ she said.
‘It might be six figures,’ he said. ‘Then again, it might not. I’m not at liberty to divulge the actual amount. Me and Mr British Agrochemicals Industries shook han…we reached an amicable agreement.’
‘Don’t you do this!’ she said. ‘What about Kylie and Martin?’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You could have brought them with you.’
‘They’re busy,’ she said.
‘Too busy to see their daddy?’ he said.
‘Don’t you shirk your responsibilities,’ she said.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of shirking recently,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to get around, you know? Telling ye, Yvonne, it’s a good job Moira comes in to do the shopping and the housework and the cooking and wash me and shave me and wipe the shite off my arse. She’s been doing it for, ooh, a couple of years now. But you know that already, eh?’
‘That bitch has played you like a fish,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ he said.
‘Don’t you dare think about giving her…’
‘Friends look after each other,’ he said. ‘It’s not difficult to work out who the real ones are.’
‘You’d better…’
‘Listen, Yvonne,’ he said. ‘The kids will be well taken care of. When they’re bigger. A lot bigger. I’m telling you that because I owe it to you, because you’re their mother, and mothers worry. I appreciate that. But you, Yvonne, you personally will be getting fuck all.’
‘You can’t…’ she said.
‘I’ve got a lawyer, too,’ he said. ‘Bloody expensive. Not an ambulance chaser. It’s all down in black and white and locked up in his safe. So you can put your papers away, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull.’
‘Stunt?’ she said. ‘Do you want to see a stunt, Jim?’ She pushed him back into his room and cowped him onto the bed. It wasn’t difficult to jam him back where she found him. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Is that good enough for you?’
His arms were folded under his legs, his head twisted against the skirting board. He was making croaking sounds. ‘Fuck you,’ he said. It was obviously an effort. ‘I’m…I’m expecting Moira any minute.’ A gasp for air. ‘And make sure you leave…’
She pulled the front door shut and tried to snap off the key in the lock, but it was rigid, she couldn’t manage it. Keeping the key would be useful, anyway. She would be able to get a good price for that television set. In fact, she knew just the man who would be interested. She threw her bag over her shoulder and started out for the Clansman, retracing her steps between the piles of broken bricks.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford is from Grangemouth. His work has appeared in over twenty
publications, including Interlitq, B O D Y (Czech Republic), Gutter, The Ofi Press (Mexico) and The
Athens News (Greece). Andrew's first
novel, Drive!, was published in
2010. He has also written two
collections of short stories, The Next
Stop Is Croy and A Man's Hands. He lives in Greece.